


Winter in Ferelden

by MsBarrows



Category: Dragon Age, Dragon Age: Origins - Awakening
Genre: F/M, Firstday, Fluff, Gift Giving, Satinalia, Seasonal Festivities
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-12-26
Updated: 2013-12-26
Packaged: 2018-01-06 04:24:10
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,937
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1102361
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MsBarrows/pseuds/MsBarrows
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Written for MireliAmbar as part of the Dragon Age Holiday Cheer exchange on Tumblr. The story is about Sigrun's first winter as a surfacer, and takes place after the events of DAA.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Winter in Ferelden

**Author's Note:**

  * For [MireliAmbar](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts?recipient=MireliAmbar).



It was going to be Sigrun's first Satinalia. The dwarf threw herself into helping with the preparations for it with the same enthusiasm she seemed to approach everything with, eyes bright with curiosity and wonder, in a way that made Nathaniel have to hide a smile. It wasn't quite what he'd call a childlike joy – her years as a duster in Orzammar meant that Sigrun had ceased to be a child at a very early age – but it was just such an obviously honest and heartfelt reaction to being exposed to this new and wonderful surfacer custom.

“You'll need a costume,” Alistair was telling her, as the two of them hung bundles of brightly coloured autumn leaves, smiling warmly down at the dwarf. “For the party. It's traditional.”

Sigrun grinned for a moment, a too-brief flash of white teeth and wide-stretched lips. “A costume? Traditional?”

Alistair nodded. “Yes. Everyone dresses up, and wears masks, and mostly pretend they don't recognize each other even if they do. There'll be dancing, and gifts...”

“Gifts?” Sigrun interrupted, looking about equal parts excited and worried.

Nathaniel guessed the reason for the worry right away. “Just small gifts, nothing special – treats, mostly. Everyone gives away little gifts of candies and cookies and so on, and then there's a big party and a feast provided by the bann or arl, at least in places like the keep.”

Sigrun turned to look at him, her curiosity evident. “And in other places?”

“In more rural areas, everyone works on the feast together, and the gifting remains more traditional; people give away gifts of food or supplies to all their neighbours. Jars of preserves, cured meats, small bags of grain or nuts, bundles of candles or rushlights, kindling and the like; it's a way of making sure that everyone has a good variety of things to get through the winter with.”

“What about people who don't have much to give?”

“They give what they can,” Alistair said, as he accepted a string of gilded acorns from Sigrun. “The exchanges don't have to be even. Anyone can gather kindling in the woods, or fish from a stream. Nuts from wild trees. Honey, too, if they know where there's a good bee tree. Whatever might make a helpful gift.”

“It's partially a way of making sure that if someone has had a bad year, they'll still make it through the winter,” Nathaniel explained. “While those who've had a really good year can show off a little, give a little extra if they want. It all evens out over time.”

Sigrun looked thoughtful for a moment, then nodded. “That sounds... nice. What should I dress as?”

“Anything,” Alistair told her. “An animal, or a character from a story you like...”

She frowned. “But where would I get a costume?”

“Well, most people make their own,” Nate answered, thinking of the bundle of fur and fabric hidden away in his room. “Or you can hire someone in town to make one for you. Or...” He broke off, hesitant.

“Or?” she prompted.

“Well. My family rarely threw away anything that might be of some future use or value. There should be a lot of trucks full of old clothing and costumes still squirrelled away in the attics here, unless someone has cleared them out,” he offered, a little uncomfortably; he didn't really like reminding people that this had once been his home, before his father had brought the family into disrepute and lost them their title. “You can likely find something to wear out of what's there.”

“And that's all right for me to do?”

Nate smiled, and shrugged. “It certainly doesn't bother me. And I doubt Neria would care.”

That brought solemn expressions to both Alistair and Sigrun's faces for a moment. Neria hadn't been the same since Leliana and she had parted ways over the summer, the bard returning to Orlais after having received word of the imprisonment of her ex-mentor Marjolaine there.

“I'll help you pick something out if you'd like,” Alistair said shyly to Sigrun. She beamed at him, clearly pleased by the suggestion.

Nathaniel opted not to accompany them; he had little interest in poking around among the detritus of his family's long ownership of the keep, with all the too-painful memories likely associated with much it. Perhaps if he ever managed to redeem his family name, his interest might return, but since having come to accept that his father had taken a truly villainous role in the events of the Blight Year, he'd lost his previous interest in recovering family artifacts. The few odds and ends he had in his room were enough. More than enough. Though perhaps Delilah would be interested; he'd have to ask, the next time he visited her and her growing family in Amaranthine.

* * *

Nathaniel adjusted his mask, then stepped out into the courtyard. The cold weather had come early this year, the mornings already frosty and the days not all that much above freezing, though at least the snows hadn't started yet; most Satinalia's were snow-free, at least here in the northern parts of the country, though it wasn't guaranteed. The huge bonfire burning in the middle of the courtyard was helping to keep temperatures tolerable enough for the celebration to be held out of doors, with smaller fires built in the corners of the space. The heavy costumes favoured in Ferelden supplied considerable warmth to their wearers as well.

He looked around, easily picking out some of his fellow wardens; Alistair made obvious by his height and breadth of shoulders even before he turned to show his minimally masked face, Oghren by his beard that no costume could ever properly disguise. Overall though, there were enough people of varied shapes and sizes living in and around the keep now for most of the participants to be pretty much anonymous, a swirl of masks and costumes, identifiable only by the sound of their voice, or the glimpse of a too-familiar way of moving or standing.

He picked his way across the crowded courtyard to where Neria stood not too far away from the heavily loaded buffet tables, her identity betrayed by the way she held the cup of hot punch in one hand, both littlest and ring fingers crooked away from its surface; the littlest out of habit, the ring finger because of stiffness caused by an old injury. She was dressed like a swan, a beaked mask hiding all but her chin and a flash of pale throat, her dress layer upon layer of dagged cream-white fabric.

“Might I have a dance, my lady?” he asked, sweeping a deep bow to her, winning a glimpse of a warm smile as she recognized his voice despite his own enveloping costume; a wolf-like mask, and a heavily furred long coat, making him appear rather like one of the werewolves that he knew Neria and Alistair had helped free from an ancient curse in the southern forests. He was especially pleased by the coat; it would require little alteration to be worn for warmth this winter, mostly just the removal of the tail in back and the clawed flaps that hung over his hands, which he planned to replace with proper cuffs.

“I would enjoy that very much,” Neria agreed, and drunk the last of her punch, then put aside the cup before allowing him to take her hand and lead the way over to where a group of musicians were playing; villagers, mostly, though one of the wardens recruited since the Blight Year was part of the group, gamely keeping up with the others as he played a wooden flute. They waited for a break in the music, then joined those on the dance floor, arranging themselves for the next dance, which involved a lot of mingling circles and exchanges of partner, and left both of them short of breath before it ended.

Alistair showed up at Neria's elbow to claim the next dance, and Nathaniel made his way over to the buffet table, getting himself a trencher of food and a hot drink before moving to some place where he could watch the dancing for a while. Neria was dancing with a dwarf now; one of the Dworkin brothers, Nathaniel thought, though it might be one of their many apprentices. Alistair was dancing with another elf; Velanna, perhaps, guessing by the sweep of pale blonde hair down her back, though the mask carved of thick bark hid all of her face. He wondered if there was a Dalish tale her costume was based on; it resembled no creature he'd ever heard of, not even the sylvans they'd fought in the wending woods, despite the woodsy nature of the costume's component pieces; bark, reeds, leaves, feathers, lengths of vine.

A dwarf walked over and dropped to sit on the bench beside him, both hands cupped around a mug of hot punch. Sigrun, he knew, guessing as much from the patchwork costume he recognized from his own youth as from the familiarity of her movements. “Why does it get so _cold_ ,” she asked, and shivered theatrically before sipping her punch.

Nathaniel smiled, and ate another bite of the roasted meat from his trencher before speaking. “I don't know. It just does, because it's winter. I've heard that one theory is that it's because of how much further north the sun is, and the shorter the days are during this time of year.”

“Huh. I suppose that makes sense,” Sigrun agreed.

“Do you have seasons, down in the deep roads?” he asked curiously.

“Not really. There's places that are warmer or colder, but that has more to do with things like magma and water than... than the sun, or whatever else it is that causes seasons up here. Magma makes it warm; water makes it cold. Most of the time, anyway, though there are places where the water is hot, but since that's mostly near magma the theory is that it's still the magma making it warm.”

“Interesting,” Nate said, and took another bite of his dinner, then glanced at Sigrun. “Have you eaten yet?”

“Earlier, yes,” Sigrun agreed, and smiled. “It was good.”

A silence fell between them for a few minutes, while Nate ate and she sipped at her drink.

“Have you danced?” he finally asked, hesitantly, breaking up what remained of his trencher bread and tossing the pieces off to where some dogs were slinking around the edges of the courtyard. They pounced on the scraps, finishing them off in fairly short order.

“I don't know how to,” she said, and ducked her head, looking down at the ground. “It's not a skill a duster needs to know. Or someone who's dead.”

“I could teach you?”

Sigrun glanced over to the dance floor, where one of the more intricate pattern-dances was currently being performed. “I dunno, that doesn't look all that easy to learn,” she said worriedly.

Nate smiled. “It's simpler than it looks. It looks complicated because there's so many people moving at once, but... look, see Alistair over there? Just watch the steps he's taking, no one else.”

Sigrun frowned, forehead creasing a little in concentration as she watched. Nate watched her, only occasionally glancing at the dance, feeling warmed when an expression of delighted comprehension suddenly crossed her face. “ _Oh!_ It's just the same series of things, done over and over.”

He grinned. “Yes. One of the longer sequences, but there's dances where the series of steps is very short. Maybe the next time one of those starts...?”

She grinned at him, looking overjoyed. “I'd like that,” she said, with a warmth in her voice that surprised him. He smiled back, feeling oddly shy himself for once.

* * *

“Still no snow?” Sigrun asked, peering out the window. She hadn't seen any yet, as far as Nathaniel knew, and was looking forward with growing impatience to experiencing the phenomena.

“It's late this year,” he said. Over two weeks since Satinalia, and the weather had continued cold but mostly dry, the ground still bare of anything more than winter-killed dry grasses and drifts of fallen leaves, the ground frozen hard underfoot from the late-season cold rains they'd had just before the freezing temperatures had really set in. On the few days that temperatures had risen above freezing, that had meant cold mud underfoot, at least beyond the cobbled main street of the village that huddled outside the keep's walls.

“Would you like to go spar for a while?” Nate suggested. “We won't be able to make use of the practise yard much longer; once the snows come we'll be stuck indoors a lot of the time.”

“That's what you said last week,” Sigrun pointed out, then shrugged and smiled, and slipped out of the window embrasure. “Sure... I could always use more practise.”

It was cold out in the practise yard, not bitterly so, only hovering around freezing but still cold enough that Nate was glad he could wear gloves for it, even if the thin leather didn't give him that much protection. They at least kept the slight breeze from leeching the warmth right out of him.

They both did warm-up exercises at first, Sigrun's hand-axe and dagger flashing in the waning sunlight as she moved from stance to stance. Nathaniel had twinned daggers, a gift from Neria; plunder from when they'd been working on squashing the smuggler's ring that had been operating out of Amaranthine. Good knives, well-made enough that even Wade hadn't been too disparaging of them when Nate had brought them to the smithy to have them properly gone over before he started using them. Though he still preferred his bow.

Sigrun's cheeks had gone apple-red from the cold breeze by the time the two of them were ready to spar. She reminded him of a character in one of the fairy tales he's been told as a child; bright blue eyes, night-black hair, reddened cheeks and a merry grin. Though the child he'd been would never have thought to picture the shortness of stature or the skull-like dark tattoo that overlay her cheerful expression. The thought brought a slow smile to his own face, which made her eyebrows raise just a little before she abruptly launched her first attack at him.

After that there wasn't much time for real thought any more, just action and reaction as they battled each other back and forth in the middle of the yard, blocking or dodging each other's blows. It wasn't quite as dangerous as it looked; they were both long-familiar with each other's moves, and pulling their blows, though they'd likely still end up with a few bruises and possibly a shallow cut or two by the time they were done. It was exhilarating, Nate found, and knew there was as fierce a grin on his own face as the one on Sigrun's.

“Enough,” he finally called, dancing back out of her range, holding his arms widespread.

She halted as well, puffing for air, and looking elated as she pushed her hair back out of her face, one of her twin ponytails having come undone over the course of their exercise. “I could have gone for longer,” she said stubbornly.

“Doubtless, but it's clouding over,” he said, drawing her attention to the sky overhead, the dark clouds sweeping in from the east.

“Snow?” she asked hopefully.

“If we're lucky,” he said guardedly, frowning at the sky. A cold day, but possibly not cold enough.

* * *

“It's _beautiful_ ,” Sigrun exclaimed as she peered out a window the next day, at a world transformed to crystal sculpture by the freezing rain that had fallen the day before.

Velanna snorted. “So speaks someone who has never had to travel in such conditions.”

“It's beautiful the way those magma rivers and falls in the Deep Roads are,” Alistair explained, his own voice more than a little grim. “Looks pretty, but it's deadly stuff.”

“Really?” Sigrun asked, surprised.

“Really,” Alistair assured her. “It's not very easy or safe to walk on ice-covered ground. Plus that's a pretty thick coating of ice; a lot of trees and branches will break or fall from the weight of it. Dangerous to people near them when it happens, or in houses too close to them. Even once the ice is gone, a lot of the roads and trails will need to be cleared before people can travel much.”

Nathaniel nodded agreement. “There may not be many people on the roads in winter, but usually if there is, it's for something vital. Imagine if darkspawn broke out in the Wending Woods again right now; it could take us days to get there, not even counting the time for someone to get word to us here.”

“Though one would hope the ice would slow them at least as much as it would slow us,” Alistair said.

“Clawed feet,” Oghren said darkly. “Doubt it'd slow them much if at all.”

“Good point,” Alistair said, wincing.

Sigrun got a chance to experience the dangers of freezing rain for herself after breakfast, when all of the wardens joined in the effort to knock ice out of the trees in the orchards beyond the village, hoping to save them from whatever additional damage they could. Dangerous work, since the ice came down in weighty chunks, and sometimes branches came down as well, or an already-damaged tree would decide to split and fall.

Just getting down the hill to the orchard was hard, feet slip-sliding on the pebbled ice, and by the time they all began the long walk back up the hill to the keep later, there'd already been a few bad accidents, mostly among the villagers – a cracked tailbone, a broken leg, an assortment of sprained ankles and wrists. One poor soul who'd been in the wrong place at the wrong time had a heavy branch come down on him; though maybe he was damned lucky, since if it hadn't been for their new healer-mage from the Circle being _right there_ , just steps away, he might not have made it. As it was both men were pale and exhausted, though at least they were now safely tucked away in beds in the keep's infirmary to recover.

“Clouding over again,” one of the more recent recruits pointed out, a farm-boy from somewhere near Highever who might match Alistair for size once he finished growing.

“More rain?” Sigrun asked Nate worriedly.

He thought for a moment, staring up at the clouds, then shook his head. “Temperature's dropped a lot since yesterday; probably snow,” he assured her.

“ _Good_ ,” she said, no more liking freezing rain now than any of them did; pretty in theory, but something you weren't very happy to see again after the first experience of it.

* * *

Snow, and more snow; storm after storm swept in from the east, most of them heavy and hard enough to be blizzards and not just snow storms. The snow covered over the ice before any of it could melt, though after the second storm the snow was deep enough that you'd have had to dig down to reach the layer of ice lurking underneath, which made the footing a lot better than it had been. Life in and around the keep pretty much ground to a halt, everyone remaining indoors unless they had some specific reason to go out.

It was the kind of winter that only Ferelden seemed to get, the weather on the Orlais side of the Frostbacks reportedly much gentler, though the Frostbacks themselves were a nightmare at this time of year, roads and passes snowed in and impassable, not that there was very many of those except at the northernmost end of the range, where the peaks weren't as tall and steep or covering as broad an area as the more southerly reaches.

In Antiva and Rivain they wouldn't get anything worse than a lot of rain most years, though the long valley of the Minanter usually saw at least some snow, and the more southerly areas of the Free States could sometimes see rather a lot of it. But the real snow storms, the worst of them, were Ferelden storms. Most years the snow would drift deep enough in heavy storms to bury houses, even here in the north, reason why even the meanest hovel usually had a roof hatch, and a shovel or at least a long stick tucked away somewhere among the roof beams.

Nathaniel spent a lazy day in the library with Sigrun, showing her drawings of places up north in some of the few illustrated books, and explaining why the roofs went from flat surfaces in the far north to the steeply pitched roofs of southern Ferelden. That led to discussion of the reasons behind other building features as well; the stilts that the cottages of the Lake Calenhad fishing villages or the huts of the Chasind barbarians are raised up on, why good thick walls were equally important in very hot and very cold climates, and so on. Sigrun wanted to know the reasons behind things; it wasn't enough for her to know that windows are wide openings in the far north and shuttered slits in the south; she delighted in knowing that it was to catch the cooling breezes, or keep in the fire-warmed air.

He liked that about her, her curiosity about this above-ground world she found herself in. Her delight each time she learned another reason behind something that she had no reason to know back in Orzammar. He was glad he could help to feed that hungry mind of hers.

* * *

The worst of the storms seem to have passed, though conditions outside still had the world at a stand-still, everyone remaining indoors. While some of the keep's inhabitants had squirrelled up in their own rooms, having had enough and more than enough of each other's company, most of them – servants and wardens alike – gathered in the refectory most of each day, the room made warm by a combination of the braziers and fireplaces around the walls, and the large number of people seated at the long tables, almost everyone working on some kind of handicraft to pass the time.

It was a comfortable time of year, one that Nathaniel had fond memories of from childhood. He spent most of his time doing the same thing now that he did back then; fletching arrows. It was slow, methodical work, but took only part of his attention. Something he could do while talking; exchanging tall tales with Alistair, getting into lengthy debates with Velanna or Neria. Some times there was music, when someone decided they'd rather play an instrument than work, or when someone started singing just because they were in the mood to.

Not that every day was peaceful; that many people cooped up together, arguments inevitably happened, feelings were hurt, minor feuds started. Though it could have been worse, Alistair pointed out, and he and Nate exchanged a few stories about cabin fever and what it could lead to in more extreme situations.

“I've seen that happen,” Sigrun agreed darkly. “People who just can't get away from each other... it can go bad real fast.”

“Really? In Orzammar?” Alistair asked, surprised, looking up from his knitting.

“Really,” Oghren said. “It's not all that big a place. Crowded. And even more crowded in Dusttown.”

“Very,” Sigrun agreed. “Lots of people, crammed into too little space; add in things like not enough food, people with short tempers and not much reason to hold their anger in, well...” She stopped, and shrugged, looking unhappy. “Things can get ugly.”

“At least we've got plenty of room here,” Oghren said. “Anyone who needs to find a place where they can just be alone for a while can find somewhere to go. It's not as bad as it could be.”

“Why do I get the feeling that whenever anyone says those words, they're about to jinx us?” Alistair asked plaintively.

Nathaniel grinned, and glanced up from wrapping thread around the bare quills at the leading edge of the vanes he was binding onto the arrow shaft. “Maybe because they so often are,” he said, which drew snorts or smiles from those seated within earshot, followed by silence as they all concentrated on the things they were working on. A local silence only, surrounded by the sounds of others around them; the women spinning wool into thread in one corner of the hall gossiping, low conversations here and there, an elderly man whistling tunelessly under his breath as he whittled spoons and animals out of scraps of wood; the spoons to be sold to one of the travelling traders, Nate knew, the animals as gifts for the local children.

Alistair made a displeased hissing sound.

“Having trouble turning the heel again?” Neria asked, sounding amused.

“Yes. I've messed up my count of stitches somewhere,” Alistair said ruefully, holding the partially completed sock close to his face and peering at the misshapen heel.

Neria laughed, and put down her sewing to hold out a hand. Alistair gave her a rueful smile as he passed it to her. She looked it over for a moment, then pulled out one of the knitting needles, unravelled a couple of rows of stitching, and re-inserted the needle before handing it back. “You reduced too many stitches,” she told him. “Wynne would be tsking at you.”

“Thanks,” he said, and smiled warmly at her, before bending back over his work, chewing on his lower lip as he concentrated.

* * *

“How much longer?” Sigrun asked, curled up in a window seat again, bemoaning the continued presence of the snow she'd originally so looked forward to.

It brought a slight smile to Nathaniel's lips. “Another week, at most,” he said. “It's usually begun thawing by Firstday.”

Sigrun turned to look at him, ignoring the book spread open in her lap. “That's like Satinalia, right? More gifts?”

His smile widened, remembering the delight with which she'd investigated the small basket full of presents she'd received early on Satinalia, the same presents they'd all received, things contributed by each of them; little cloth sacks of candy or nuts, strings of dried apple rings and imported dried figs, an assortment of different cookies, candles, tea, and other little luxuries.

“More gifts, yes, but different ones. Mostly just for close friends, family... it's a smaller celebration than Satinalia was.”

“More cookies?” she asked hopefully; she had a sweet tooth.

He shrugged. “Most likely, yes... though just as dessert, not as gifts, unless there's someone who cooks that you're particularly close with. We'll eat well on Firstday, though it won't be a big party like Satinalia; it's more a day for visiting friends and family. Small gatherings. Making sure everyone you care about survived the winter,” he added with a smile.

“Also an excuse for getting rid of some of the handicrafts everyone has made while snowed in,” Velanna spoke up, wrinkling her nose at the piece of leather she was currently tooling a pattern into.

“That too,” Nathaniel agreed.

Sigrun frowned, looking worried. “To everyone?” she asked cautiously.

“No, just to your closest friends. It's for special gifts for special people instead of little gifts for everyone,” Alistair said.

“Oh, okay,” Sigrun said, looking at least marginally relieved, then turned and looked out the window again, fingers drumming on the pages of the book.

* * *

The thaw started three days before Firstday, warm winds blowing in from the northeast. The icicles hanging from the eaves of many buildings started melting, water dripping from them with increasing speed until they either dropped free to smash on the still snow-covered ground below, or melted away entirely. Not that their absence stopped the dripping, as the snow still covering many of the roofs took time to melt, though by noon of the second day many roofs in the village were pretty much clear of snow, the burden having slid down the steeply sloped roofs to form deep banks around each building.

It would be days yet before the snow was all gone, possibly weeks, depending on whether there were any further snow storms, but at least things had begun thawing out from the worst of it. It was still cold at night, freezing everything up again, but they were definitely on the down-side of winter.

Firstday itself dawned crisp and clear, sunlight glinting off the icy crust that had formed on top of the snow overnight. The keep emptied out of most of its servants right after breakfast, many of them having friends or family or both to go visit down in the village. Some of the wardens vanished as well, for similar reasons, though they began trickling after lunch, as did some of the servants, who set to work on preparing the large dinner that everyone would be enjoying that evening.

The wardens spent most of the afternoon wandering around between each other's room, exchanging the gifts they'd made for each other; beautifully made leather pouches from Velanna, and thick woollen socks from Alistair, only a little lumpy around the heels. Oghren gave away bottles of a rather potent lichen-based beer he'd brewed down in the cellars, and Neria had sewn little sachets for everyone, beautifully embroidered and filled with scented herbs she'd dried for the purpose earlier in the year. Nathaniel had made decorative carvings to give to people; a halla for Velanna, a mabari each for Neria and Alistair, a large wooden tankard for Oghren, a handful of lace-making bobbins to give to Delilah the next time he was in Amaranthine, a wooden horse for the son she'd given birth to last spring, and a rattle for the baby due this one.

It was mid-afternoon before he realized he hadn't seen Sigrun all day, not since breakfast. Hadn't seen much of her at all the last couple of days either, when he thought about it.

“Have you seen Sigrun today? Since breakfast, I mean,” he asked Alistair in late afternoon, beginning to worry a little about the dwarf's continued absence.

Alistair shook his head. “Not yet,” he said. “I'm looking for her too... I have socks to give her. You don't think she's avoiding me, do you? They're a little on the lumpy side. And grey. I'm not sure she likes grey.”

Nathaniel smiled. “I don't think she's avoiding you,” he reassured Alistair. Though he found himself worried that maybe she was avoiding all of them; he remembered the look on her face when she'd heard that the gifts exchanged on Firstday would be for special friends. Maybe she thought no one thought of her as a special friend, or perhaps she herself didn't think of any of them that way.

He wandered around a little while longer, hoping to see her, then eventually gave up and returned to his own rooms. He hadn't been there long when there was a knock at the door, and he smiled happily when he opened it to find her standing there, a nervous expression on her face, and a small sack of coarse-woven cloth cupped in both hands, tied shut with a a floppy bow of rough twine, a nervous smile on her face.

“Sigrun! Come in,” he exclaimed, and stepped back, gesturing for her to enter. She came into his room, looking curiously around before looking back to him.

“I, um, I made these for you,” she said, and held out the sack toward him.

“For me?” he asked, and then smiled as he accepted it. “I have something for you as well,” he told her, and fetched the little parcel from his desk, wrapped in a fold of birch bark tied shut with a pair of bright blue ribbons, as close to the shade of her eyes as he'd been able to find.

“Hair ribbons?” she asked, smiling as she touched the colourful lengths of cloth.

“That too, but the real present is inside,” he told her. “Open it.”

“Okay. But you have to open yours too,” she said firmly, nodding at the cloth sack that he'd left sitting on the corner of his desk.

“Of course,” he said, picking it up, then gestured at the padded bench near the fire. “Err... would you like to sit?”

|Thank you,” she said, and they sat down at opposite ends of the bench. She carefully untied the ribbons, draping them over her thigh, then unfolded the birch bark. “Oh,” she exclaimed, voice soft and surprised, then carefully lifted out the wooden comb he'd made for her, the wide back of it carved to look like bushes, with birds and small animals peeking out among the leaves. “It's _beautiful_.”

He smiled warmly at her as she peered closely at it, fingers caressing the smoothly-sanded wood, making little happy sounds as she spotted the different animals and birds.

“I've never owned anything so pretty,” she said after a couple of minutes, smiling warmly at him, then frowned. “You haven't opened yours yet,” she pointed out.

He blushed, realizing he'd been too busy admiring her to pay proper attention to her present. He quickly turned his attention to it, undoing the twine, then folding back the top of the sack to peer inside.

“Cookies,” he said, surprised, then looked at her. “I didn't know you baked.”

She flushed, and smiled back. “I'm just learning. I wasn't sure what to make for people that they'd like... so in the end I decided it was easiest to just make something that I'd like. One of the cooks helped me. I'm afraid they didn't come out very well,” she added nervously.

He smiled warmly at her, then took out one of the cookies. It was crooked and lumpy, the underside a little on the dark side, but it smelled deliciously familiar, and his eyes widened when he took a bite of it, the lumps turning out to be chunks of walnuts and chopped dried cherries, the dough sweet with honey, and seasoned with a blend of spices he hadn't tasted in years, not since before he'd been sent north for fostering. The cookies his mother had sometimes ordered baked as a special treat, when he was a little boy.

“This recipe... where'd you find it?” he exclaimed.

She smiled shyly. “The cook who helped me, she said you'd like these ones. Are they all right?”

“They're _perfect_ ,” he assured her, then offered the bag to her. “Share them with me?”

Her smile widened as she plucked one from the bag. “Thank you,” she said.

He smiled back warmly. “No, thank you. I haven't had these in years... they were a childhood favourite of mine.”

They ate in silence for a couple of minutes, Sigrun accepting a second cookie but shaking her head when he offered her a third. “I should go,” she said, and looked down at the comb and ribbons resting in her lap. “Thank you for the presents.”

He smiled. “Thank you for the cookies,” he said.

She shrugged, looking uncomfortable. “They're nothing special,” she said.

“Yes they are,” her told her firmly. “Because _you_ made them.”

She stared at him for a moment, surprised, and then smiled happily at him. “Really?” she asked.

“Really,” he assured her, and chewed on his lip for a moment, uncertain, then leaned over and quickly brushed a kiss to her cheek. “Very special.”

The way she smiled at him brought a flush to his cheeks. “ _Oh_.”

“Stay a little longer? Unless you have something else you need to do?”

Her answering smile seemed to light the whole room, as warm as summer sun.


End file.
